The Dead Chaperone
by maycontaincocoa
Summary: John Watson watched his best friend jump to his death and on that day, two men broke in two different ways. Months after Sherlock's death, someone breaks into the apartment in Baker Street and Mycroft asks John to investigate in a woman's accident. The more he learns, the closer he gets to an absurd conclusion, but what will he do when Sherlock comes back into his life?
1. The Inquiry

_Your Landlady says someone's been inside your apartment. Nothing seemed to have been taken, but it's a mess here and I can't really tell. Have a look?_

_Lestrade._

_The phone buzzed behind John. It rarely does that anymore. He spared the device a startled glance, turned back to pass his patient an apologetic shrug and continued to explain to the obese man why fat-free blood vessels are good for the heart._

_The patient finally left, leaving John with about half an hour of time to himself before he could clock out. He relaxed, willing the day's strain out of him in a long sigh, and remembered the text. Reluctantly, he picked up the phone and read the message from the Detective Inspector._

"Your apartment..."

_He must mean the flat at Baker Street. John hasn't been there for months, not since- Mrs. Hudson must have been keeping the flat as it was. Sweet woman, she needs the income, and yet she hasn't let out the flat despite all that had happened..._

The burglary happened a few weeks ago, and John wondered briefly at the irrelevance of the recollection. His mind shouldn't be wandering, Mycroft _was_ sitting right across him after he had been picked off the street and brought to this cafe without so much of a warning. Maybe he should tell him? That the burglar hadn't taken anything of value like the laptop on the desk or the telly, but went straight for the bookshelf instead. He (or she) knew what he was looking for and knew where to get it. But did he get it? John couldn't tell. He'd lived there for months, and he still doesn't know what most of everything was, or what they were for. And now, he'd never know.

_His wrist was cold. Broken, limp and cold. Without a pulse. Lifeless. Dead._

The doctor started back to the present to see Mycroft looking at him. Not just looking, but searching. Avoiding the other man's eyes, he buttered his scone and took a bite, keeping his eyes down and away. The brothers shared their parent's height and eyes. Blue eyes; not a vivid, startling blue, but a cold blue with a touch of grey, or silver. Silence encompassed the two men. The cafe was comfortably quiet, with only two or three other customers. It was a homey place, cosy chairs and tables, and polite service (God knows that's a rare luxury to chance upon).

"You called me out here for a reason. What is it." John supposed the words left his lips a lot harsher than he intended them to, but he was tired. The food was good and the tea was better, yet neither hardly kindled anything inside of himself anymore. Especially not since- not since he saw-

"That coffee shop you have been frequenting lately." Mycroft's voice brought him back to the cafe again. Still unemotional and steady, but... halting, stalling? John raised an eyebrow, pressing the older man to say more. "The waitress who seems to have taken a liking to you..."

_She was blonde, with her hair cut short like a boy's, with a sprinkle of freckles across her cheeks and nose, and sparkling green eyes. He remembers her. She was new, she recognised him as a regular, and made a point to serve him his usual every time he was there. She was a nice girl._

"She was one of Moriarty's girls."

John looked up, surprised. An ember glowed bright somewhere inside him. Moriarty. So much hatred and fear for that one name.

"Was?" He searched deep in those blue eyes. Searching, for a shadow of hate, a whisper of vengeance, something that could prove Mycroft still cared for his brother. Did he have her taken care of?

"She... won't be a threat anymore."

"Why?" John asked. "Other than for being a criminal, of course. But she must be doing something to warrant being dealt with, what was it?"

A brief moment of consideration flickered past Mycroft's features. "She was poisoning you."

_She served him his usual, black cup of coffee with no sugar, beneath the cup was a serviette with a number scribbled on it. He regarded the youth's advances nonchalantly, remembering the days when he would actively go out with women._

"Lead poisoning." The older man carried on. "She was dosing you in every cup of coffee you had. I'm sure you've already begun to feel nauseous and sluggish by now. It has been, what, two weeks? We don't know how much the dosage was, but you might want to get a blood test and maybe chelation."

John digested the information and checked off the symptoms he had. No doubt, the blood test will be positive. The source of information was, after all, Mycroft Holmes. He may be a man who would withhold information that could save a life (though for thousands, he'll justify), but he doesn't lie.

"That doesn't... You're not telling me something." The press was all about the detective and the sidekick doctor; the brain and the soldier. People read about the partnership, know about the flat-sharing, but they forget that John has been working with one of the greatest man in the world. _A man loathed by the world because of a perfect lie._ John has picked up a thing or three about deductions.

Mycroft's lips thinned slightly at the confrontation.

"It wasn't us." John frowned, and Mycroft continued. "We found out about her connections and the heavy metal poisoning when the police investigated her death."

"So why are you..."

"I," Mycroft paused. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "I don't believe in coincidences, Doctor Watson.

"Would you investigate into her death?"


	2. Habits

He had said no.

The door clicked shut, and John scribbled a note at the bottom of his last patient's medical file.

If Mycroft wanted something done, he'd have had it done before he could bring it up in a conversation. So why ask _him_?

There was a knock on the door, and John pushed the thoughts aside and switched back to doctor-mode automatically.

One of John's colleague, Sarah, poked her head into the examine room, and made a face. "John." The sternness in her voice made him look up at her. "Go home already. Your shift ended three _hours_ ago."

He held his hands up in defeat, mumbling, "I'm going, I'm going." The ex-army doctor tidied up, leaving little trace of his presence in the room. He really did not want to leave, let alone go home, but staying meant arguing, and arguing meant explaining. And John really did not wish to explain why he did not want to go back to his tidy, peaceful flat.

Minutes later, with his jacket zipped up to his collar and with the sun warming his face, John Watson began to wander the streets.

"_No," John had said, sitting back and crossing his arms as though the act would put some finality into his words. Mycroft looked unconvinced. "No. I'm a doctor, not a detective." Not anymore, anyway. _

Who was he kidding? The moment Mycroft had admitted that he had nothing to do with the waitress's death, instincts had kicked in, and all but screamed at him to go to the scene of the crime to investigate. Recalling the meeting with Mycroft only woke John's compulsion to gather more information, more data again.

_She laid face down, her fingernail was chipped from scratching her dying message on the wooden floor. _

She was the first murder victim he had ever examined. During his student years, he had dealt with natural deaths, sickness and injuries; in his military years, he was surrounded by violent injuries and deaths. Unsurprisingly, the years of experience had conditioned him to the point of near-indifference. The deaths of friends and families would still shake him, but the feeling will pass. He's gotten over them. He just hasn't gotten over _his_.

A shadow darted across his face, and somewhere in the trees, a raven called out. The soldier tugged at his jacket sharply, hoping he could somehow dislodge the suffocating absence on his shoulders. Commanding his feet to move, he buried his hands into his pockets and took off. 'Where to?' A part of him asked. Somewhere, nowhere. It didn't really matter where he went. As long as he was moving, as long as he was busy with something, inaction always spelt despair for John. So just keep walking, and maybe, John _just_ might move on.

It wasn't the deaths that troubled him. It was the lies. It was the lies and the unspoken truths, the deceit, the suffering, and the whole, tangled web of it all. Like how that father knows that the child sitting on his shoulders isn't really his, and how the couple holding hands aren't the childhood friends they say they are, but have the same blue-green flecks in their eyes which are a hereditary trait.

John covered his mouth, masking his mirthless smile. _"Trust issues, it says here." Mycroft looked up from the notebook in his hand. _Maybe he shouldn't have stopped seeing that psychiatrist after all, seeing that she wasn't entirely wrong about him. And speaking of Mycroft, can John just say, "You manipulative bastard."

"Pardon?" The waitress looked up and poised herself to receive her next customer's order.

"Just thinking out loud," John waved a hand apologetically and studied the menu overhead. Blame it on muscle memory or on the older man's manipulation, whatever it is, John's found himself in the coffeehouse where Moriarty's 'associate' had been serving John his usual coffee. "I think I'll just have tea, thank you."

The young woman nodded, tapped some keys in the cashier and brewed him a cup. John paid for his tea and a sandwich he had picked up, and turned to get himself a seat.

It was a typical coffeehouse. Popular as any other coffeehouse for their cheap coffee and quick service, most of the customers opt not to stay put, so it wasn't difficult to find an empty table. He had noticed a section of the chalkboard, where they often advertise their beverages or announce any promotions, had been turned into a memorial tribute to the waitress that had passed away recently. There was a picture of her, her smile radiant and her eyes flashing with joy, and surrounding that picture were flowers, candles (though unlit for the customers' safety) and a handful of notes mourning the loss.

To think that the youth had been poisoning him in this very shop, in the midst of people who called her their 'friend'.

'I guess there's no helping it.' John thought to himself wryly just as a waitress approached him with his cup of tea as well as his sandwich, now toasted.

"Here you go, Sir." The woman flashed him a well-practiced smile and turned to leave.

"Excuse me, sorry." John started, the waitress turned back to face him. "I couldn't help but notice the chalkboard... One of your colleagues passed away?"

A shadow descended on the young woman's face. "Yes. She was new here, but she was nice."

"Oh, God. I'm so sorry." Somewhere inside him, John was impressed by himself. _I'm so sorry? Really?_ "I remember her... She served me coffee often." John paused, glancing at the pictures on the chalkboard and hoped he looked sorrowful. "I never did catch- What was her name?"

* * *

"Alice Sanders?" Gregory sounded surprised and increasingly curious.

"Yeah," John pressed his ear to the phone, trying to hear the inspector over the noise of the busy street. "She died last week, Tuesday. Early twenties, short blonde hair."

"Waitress at some coffeehouse?" A man spoke up in the background. The familiar voice aroused a sick taste in the back of John's throat. Anderson.

"Coffeehouse waitress?" Greg confirmed with John.

"Yes."

"It was an accident. Inspected the scene myself. She fell trying to reach for her hat that was blown off the roof. Why do you want to know about her?" John could picture the forensics inspector's look of suspicion and reluctance. "And who's asking?" The man was definitely not going to give him the details if he knew who was asking.

"Colleague of mine," Gregory said smoothly and turned back to the phone. "Why _do _you want to know?"

John considered lying to him, but decided against it, Gregory had just lied to Anderson for his sake after all. Also, he was one of the few people in this world who trusted him, even after Moriarty's last act, he definitely deserved the truth from John.

"A reliable source told me that the girl used to work for Moriarty. I need to know if this really was an accident or not."

Greg digested the information. "I can get you the information, but I'm at a crime scene now.."

"I just need to know where she died."

"Right, I'll text... " Greg paused to think. "Hold on a moment. Anderson!" John heard shuffling and the voices became indistinct as though the inspector was holding his hand over the phone. He didn't need to wait long before Greg was back. "She fell off her apartment building, from the roof."

John committed the address to memory and realised he was only a few minutes' walk from the place.

"Thanks."

"Good luck."

John hung up and tucked his phone into his pocket. He couldn't really blame Gregory for being hesitant, he had been under quite a lot of pressure after Moriarty's suicide, and if anyone from Scotland Yard realised he had freely provided John with private, sensitive information, he could get into a lot of trouble. As respected as the Detective Inspector was before, people were now determined to stop the man before he could make any more _grievous_ _mistakes_. John could only imagine what it felt like to work with that kind of company for hours everyday.

* * *

The day was beginning to cool, shadows were lengthening with the descending sun, and John reckons he's got one or two hours of daylight left to inspect the rooftop.

He hauled himself up the stairs, ignoring the growing ache in his leg, and scanned the rooftop as he caught his breath.

There had been many people on the rooftop, the footprints left on the loose gravel said as much. The footprints gathered around two general spots on the roof, and one looked like it was the spot the residents here would go to have a smoke, so John headed for the other side of the roof.

Anderson had said that the girl was on the rooftop when her hat was blown off over the ledge. John studied the area. The remains of several strands of navy blue wool indicated that the hat must have gotten caught on the rusty nail below where John/Alice was. A silhouette of the waitress walked past John and bent over the ledge, reaching for an imaginary beret. And according to everyone else's conclusion, that was when she lost her footing and tumbled head-first to her death five stories below.

_John recognised the sound of bones breaking. He wished he hadn't heard it. He wished the sound of the many vehicles around him had drowned it out, that the sickeningly familiar crack of bones had not reached him._

A sharp pain shot up his right leg, jolting him back to the present.

Something wasn't right. John kneaded the dull ache away from his leg. Knowing the goons of Moriarty's, no assassin would have been done in by a stupid hat. John searched the grounds for something, anything.

A thread, nylon instead of wool, unlike the others.

"_I don't believe in coincidences, Doctor Watson."_

Mycroft was right. Her death was not accidental. Someone had secured the hat onto the rusted nail to make it look like she was reaching for it when she fell. Nonetheless, whether she fell or she tripped or she was pushed or thrown over the ledge, whatever had happened, Alice Sanders was not alone on the rooftop when she died. And whoever was here had created evidence to make it look like the whole thing was an accident.

But who? And more importantly, _why_?

"Oh."

John spun around, alert and wary.

"I'm sorry, I didn't think anyone would be here." A young woman stepped out from behind a door, green eyes fastened on John. Both man and woman studied the other. She had been crying and she hadn't been sleeping. She wore a pair of dark blue jeans and a plain white top of someone with a decent wage, and she also wore a blue-grey cardigan that wasn't hers. John could tell that she was a person who lived simple, someone who chose not to spend money on luxury goods for personal reasons. She also looked like she lived with someone, seeing that her sweater wasn't her own, but something she had picked up casually from her place, which suggests she lived with someone else, someone close enough that didn't mind the sharing.

"Are-" John turned his attention away from deducing the woman's life and back to the conversation. "I might, this might sound weird, but," She twisted her fingers nervously. "Are you here... because of Alice?"

Relative. John nodded slowly.

"You," She started hesitantly. "You're from the coffeehouse she worked in right?"

"John," He held his hand out and took a step towards the woman. "John Watson."

"Oh, God. Sorry, I forgot to-" She clasped his hand and shook it. "Zoe. Zoe Cole. I am- I was Alice's cousin. I came by to collect her things."

"I don't work at the coffeehouse, but I was a customer there," John explained vaguely. There was a chance that this woman might not have known of Alice's connections with Moriarty. "And she used to serve me regularly."

Something darkened in her eyes and her smile wavered.

"Oh," She sighed. "I was hoping you were a friend... Alice... She ran away from home a few years ago, her dad would beat her. We used to be close, and then she suddenly vanished. Her dad said that she ran away and had gotten into drugs and stealing and all sorts of bad news, but I don't know... Never heard from her, not once, until now... I was hoping... I was hoping you'd know..."

John apologised softly. Either this woman was a very good actress, or she knew nothing of Alice's attempt on his life or of Moriarty. For a moment, the two strangers simply fell silent and gazed at the setting sun.

"Dr. Watson," Zoe began.

"Just John, please."

"John," She smiled, somewhat glad to drop the formalities. "I'm not from around here... And honestly, it's not that I'd get lost, but I would appreciate it if there was someone I knew with me when I visit her... when I visit Alice... Could you.. Is it too much to ask of you, to come, with me, to visit her grave tomorrow?"

John wondered if he was still soft when it came to women. Even though he knows that women were as capable as anybody when it came to harming another. Irene Adler for one, and Alice Sanders would be a more recent example.

They agreed to meet by the gates of the cemetery the next day in the late morning, and then they both took the elevator down, Zoe to where Alice's room is, and John to the main entrance.

Outside, John was mentally picturing the shortest way to the nearest train station, when a sleek, black car slowed to a stop beside him. He let out a sigh and made to open the door. He didn't expect, however, for the door to open on its own, much less to see Lestrade stepping out, looking mildly intimidated by something.

Or someone, rather.

The inspector cleared his throat and straightened his back. He shut the door behind him, and the car drove off without hesitation.

For a moment, they were silent. They were simply two men currently caught in a lull in their conversation.

"I met your source." The inspector said intelligently.

John made a sound of acknowledgement.

"Drink?"

"Yes, let's."


	3. Family Matters

_Call you j. A NJ Jew,_

John raised an eyebrow at the text. Sounds like Gregory won't be conscious for the next hour at the very least. The doctor hopes he'll have a hangover to match the one he himself woke up with this morning or better yet, a worse one. He slid his phone shut and slipped it into a pocket, before shutting his eyes and mentally willing away the sharp throbbing in the back of his eyes. Admittedly, he did drink a lot more than he had to last night, he just wished Greg had stopped him, had told him to take it easy.

_John poured Greg another, and then one for himself. The Inspector shook his head, mumbling something that neither of them would remember, and eventually downed the drink under John's persuasive glare._

John wondered if it was worth investing in sunglasses.

At least the chilly morning helped ease the magnificent headache he had, although his current whereabouts made the chill slither down and into his chest. He once stood here before, by the _gates, helping Mrs. Hudson out of the car. _

"Are you lost, dear?" John really regretted turning his head so quickly. He did, however, turn around in time to see an elderly man wobble unsteadily and grab Zoe's arm for support. One of his leg looked more bulky than the other, noticing the straps beneath the man's pants, John wouldn't be surprised if the man rolled up his pants to reveal a prostatic leg, and the doctor in him wanted to remind the old man not to walk on muddy grounds like that. He looked like he was in his sixties, but was clearly a man with much strength left to spend in him. He wore at least four layers of clothing, likely sensitive to the cold, and a wig just like any other balding man would.

"A little bit, actually, I'm meeting a..." She glanced around and spotted John. "There he is." She gave the doctor a small wave, turning back to the old man and said something John couldn't hear. But the old man chuckled and waved her off before disappearing to where ever he came from.

"I hope I didn't make you wait long." She was dark blue all over, from her blouse to her blazer and even to her tote, making John fidget inwardly for being underdressed.

Wordlessly, they began the slow walk up the gentle hill, while around them, songbirds sang and the foliage above them rustled as the fog lifted. John's mind began to wander.

"_I haven't got a say in this, have I?" Gregory said feeling the familiar, growing warmth in his stomach. "I mean, I would've helped you with the case even without his... persuasion. I admit it may not have been at the top of my to-do list, but I don't have much of a choice, do I?"_

"_When dealing with Mycroft?" John ordered another two drinks for the both of them. "I'm afraid not."_

_The Inspector was silent, contemplating over the new drinks that arrived at their elbows._

"_The whole Alice Sanders thing," He wondered out loud. "Do you think Mycroft was involved? I mean... who else would?"_

_John considered the options. "Well, Moriarty had to have enemies right? And other than governments and the law, he could have made enemies with other criminals... If Moriarty's underlings are still acting in his name..." What a horrible idea it could be. People with skills, without restraint and with nothing to lose. "Then his enemies would want to get rid of his remaining loyal followers, right?"_

"_Maybe," Gregory dragged the word, as though trying to see if the idea proposed by his companion made sense in the half filled crossword puzzle that was the case. Seemingly satisfied with this, he nodded and shrugged and gulped his drink down._

_Perhaps it was the liberating effect of the alcohol together with its ability to still his nerves, but a thought arose in John's mind. A terrifying thought that could have dropped a chill down to his gut, a paralysing idea that hardly provoked his instinctual fight-or-flight response._

_He was a target. A target for everyone out there who was loyal to Moriarty._

_He was, after all, the closest thing to Moriarty's reason for putting his gun in his mouth. He would be the perfect target..._

"Alice never hated her father you know."

A whirlwind of thoughts dissipated in an instant, leaving John mildly confused as to where he was. His headache throbbed in his temples, making focus difficult to achieve.

Unbeknownst to John's mental turmoil, Zoe carried on talking. "Her mother had brought her up to be a responsible child, and when she left, Alice believed it was up to her to nurse her father sober."

Her voice hitched, and John realised why. They had reached a clearing, and to the left was a simple gravestone, but more importantly, it was the newest of all the gravestones in the area.

"Silly girl." Tears were running down her cheeks freely now. John gently placed a hand on her shoulder, to which she clutched at tightly. They stood there like that for a while, and before John could excuse himself to give her space, she quietly requested to have some time alone.

The doctor walked back down the path, turning back once to see the young woman on her knees, presumably talking to the stone.

"_Don't be dead."_

It was a cruel coincidence to have placed the young assassin's grave so close to _his_. John found himself in a familiar, uncomfortable spot.

"Hey," He said simply to the black stone. Two years ago, this piece of rock brought back the weakness in his leg, brought back the phantom pain in his bones and in his joints.

_Sentiment. _The voice in his head observed, bored.

Of course he felt sentimental to a shiny rock. John cared little for what is, but more for what it represents, what it meant to him.

"I," John lowered his head and chuckled. "I'm talking to a rock."

His phone rang. He's saved.

"Lestrade?"

"Morning," John envied the lack of pain and suffering in the Inspector's voice. "Sorry I couldn't call you sooner. I've got information on Alice and Zoe for you." John glanced over his shoulder at where Zoe was, he could see her silhouette still by the gravestone. "Is this a good time?" He had told the inspector that he was going to accompany Zoe to visit the graveyard, it was difficult to not guess that he would be passing by _his _grave.

'Yes. Yes, a good time as any." John might have been too quick to answer, but if Gregory discerned anything, he didn't mention it. "So, what have you got?"

A soft shuffling of papers later, Gregory began to read out snippets of Alice Sander's life. Her mother left her when she was young, left her with a drunken father who was collecting debts after debts just so that he could drink himself into stupor each night. His health deteriorated gradually, when for no obvious reasons, Alice and her sister ran away, went off the grid for a few years until two years ago when they applied for an apartment.

"Her _what_?"

"Older sister." More shuffling of papers and then a soft thump as though Gregory had tapped the papers with his finger. "Older by four years, with a record of prostitution, theft, small time trouble mostly, although she _was _a murder suspect for a while. The two were inseparable, apparently."

"Wait, she had a sister?"

"Yes," Gregory said, exasperated. "Zoe Sanders, you know, older sister of Alice?"

Instinctively, he recognised the moment. When something was out of place. When a seemingly unrelated string of trifle matters gathered together to form a picture.

"_Dr. Watson," Zoe began._

"_Just John, please."_

_John never said he was a doctor. _

That moment when he realised the door wasn't locked, or that the floor mat had shifted, or when he realised that the taxi he was in, had driven past another man to get to him.

_She wore a pair of dark blue jeans and a plain white top of someone with a decent wage, and she also wore a blue-grey cardigan that wasn't hers._ The cardigan was the same shade of blue as the beret that was fixed to the rusted nail.

When something small and insignificant was just _off_, and John would suddenly find a gun pressed to his forehead.

"He said she could be his protégé."

John had his hand hovering over his handgun when he briefly felt the barrel of another press against his arm, above his elbow. Click, gunfire, and his arm felt like it was on fire. Dropping his phone to clutch at his injury, he turned to face her.

While he was doubled over and nursing his wound, she stood tall and seething. In his head, John noted down several facts at once. The wound was only a flesh wound; shallow, but very likely to have struck a vessel. He had a gun, and was a good shot, but he wouldn't be fast enough to dodge the bullet Zoe had aiming at his heart. And lastly, Lestrade had heard the shot, and he knew where he was. John estimated he would be here in ten minutes. Ten minutes wouldn't have been that bad, if John wasn't going to bleed out in four, not unless he could stop the bleeding properly. And chances are that Zoe won't let him do so.

All in all, things weren't looking good.

"Zoe Sanders." John grunted, pressing down on his injury, finding the best possible grip he could get. "Not Cole. You were her sister." Stall her. It was the only thing he could do now, and frankly the only thing to do when faced with a killer with a gun.

"She was gifted." The gun trembled, and Zoe held it steady with both hands. "Jim said he could teach her to be like him, to be able to get anything she wanted. He said she had potential."

Blood trickled steadily down his arm and dripped off the tips of his fingers.

"I was made to work to pay my father's debts, and I was _fine_ with that. As long as my sister was safe, I'd do anything. But when I heard he was thinking of selling my _baby sister_ out too, I made her pack her things and we ran away." A feral snarl warped her face, the quiet, polite woman that John first knew her as was gone. Some might say that this madness was Zoe's true colours, but he knew better. She wasn't mad with anger, nor was she twisted with hatred or violence. She was mad with grief, twisted with sorrow, and only violent because violence made things simple and straightforward.

Kill those who had hurt her sister, and the world will be right again.

"She was angry with me, like never before. Said I had ruined her plans and ruined everything. I asked her to explain and she told me that she had been poisoning our father, and that he would have been dead in a few day's time." A proud smile lit her darkened gaze. Pride in learning how her little sister would take care of herself. "But she was still young, too young to understand other things... Or so I thought.

"I came across one of my father's debt collectors one day, and I found out that my father had already sold my sister out to him several times already. Next thing I knew, he and I were in an alley, and he was on the floor, his pants soaked in blood. And James was there, behind me. I didn't notice him before. I thought he was going to call the cops so I ran. But when I got home, he was having _tea _with my sister."

She chuckled, her gun dipped, she was relaxing. But not soon enough, the blood soaking into his pants was growing cold. John was running out of time.

"He said she was going to need more refined substances so that she could lower her doses or people would be able to taste the poison in the drinks she served. And then he turned to me and said I was going to need a proper knife so that I needn't have to use my keys to kill a man. He said he could help us, said he could help turn my sister into the next mastermind, second only to himself, and said he would teach me how to protect my sister."

John was losing feeling in his arm, he could feel his heart pumping harder to overcome the lowering blood pressure. Stupid organ didn't know it was making things worse.

The light in Zoe's eyes dimmed significantly. This is it. John readied himself, his legs tensed, preparing to leap out of her aim and to return fire. Whether he could do this after all the blood loss, well, he was going to find out.

Until someone crashed through a small bush, doctor and assassin snapped to the side. It was the graveyard's caretaker, John's chance.

He kicked himself off the ground, slamming into the woman. She pulled the trigger, but the shot rang out harmlessly. They fell to the ground and grappled. The odds looked good. He was stronger than her and had disarmed her, but she was quick and he was injured. Zoe shook an arm free from under the hold of his wounded hand and clapped him hard over his ear.

Dazed and his sense dulled greatly from the blood loss, John was roughly pushed off, and he instinctively tucked and rolled. He pictured the sight of the barrel before he looked up.

"Goodbye, Doctor." And everything seemed to slow to a stop, everything except her finger.

Expectedly, John registered the second gunshot, but it was accompanied with a stomp, a loud crack and a scream.

The caretaker had brought a cane down on her hand, intending to disarm her, fracturing something in the process as well. The gun was sent flying and Zoe whirled around to attack the old man, but the cane met with her temple before she could do anything, and she was out cold.

Mercilessly, the old man turned the unconscious woman around and bound her hands behind her with a plastic cable tie, as well as her legs. And when the caretaker turned to face him, John couldn't help but flinch.

And then John found himself on his back, with the caretaker securing a strip of cloth tightly around his arm. He must have passed out.

"Use my pen," John's tongue felt uselessly heavy, slurring his words, and making him unclear on top of being soft. "Tie another piece of cloth above the wound, slip the pen under and twist to tighten. Should lessen the bleeding."

Wordlessly, the caretaker did as he was told until both men heard the faint sounds of the police sirens approaching. John huffed a sigh of relief and was surprised when the caretaker took his free hand and placed it firmly on top of his wound. He hadn't had time to secure the pen properly, and John naturally held it in place, stopping the first aid from loosening.

"Wait," John tried to shout, but fatigue undermined his ability to talk. He watched as the caretaker briskly stride towards the road where a motorcycle was parked, realising that the man had lost his limp sometime during the fight. However, before the man could reach the bike, a black car slowed to a stop in front of the caretaker. One of the windows lowered, but the caretaker's figure blocked John's view. Some words were exchanged, or there was no exchange at all, but whatever happened made the caretaker get into the car instead, leaving the motorcycle behind.

They drove off, just when the police arrived. Men in uniform spilled out from the cars and a man in a beige coat ran straight for John. He knew that man. He was on the phone with him just a few minutes ago, but his name slipped out of his grasp. Just as consciousness slipped out from under him, letting him sink into a deep sleep.

7


	4. Recovery

Sorry for such an awful gap between chapters.. I'm horrible at being consistent and I prefer to finish a story first before putting it up (hence the lack of anything), but I thought I'd give myself a chance... So, sorry...

This chapter isn't much, and I honestly can't promise you I'll have the next chapter up soon, but thanks for reading!

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The nurse left, towing the portable cardiac monitor behind her, and the moment she had her back turned, Gregory fished out a bottle of beer from a paper bag and passed it to John.

He twisted off the cap and the grateful doctor raised the bottle in a silent toast to praise the inspector's benevolence, before knocking the drink back. Another hiss and a soft pop told him that Gregory had opened a bottle of his own.

"So..." Something inside John uncoiled, and he let out a sigh of relief, aware of the tension only when it left him. He may be familiar with hospitals and the medical equipment around him from the time spent as a doctor, but things seemed different when he was the one being attended to by the nurses and the doctors, as compared to being the doctor, and doing the treating bit. "Everything's more or less settled then?"

Gregory made a face and grumbled, "Well, if you would call it that, yeah. The whole thing is a mess, if you ask me, but Mycroft just wrapped it all up and cleared everything away like it was a simple case of burglary."

The doctor-patient mentally recalled the conversation they were having before the nurse came by for his routine cardiac check-up. There were several unanswered questions about Zoe Sanders' attempted murder the day before yesterday.

One, unsurprisingly, was the sister's questionable background check. Records supported most of what Zoe claimed, except for a few years during which they seemed to have completely disappeared. Supposedly, those were the years in which they were under Moriarty's care.

Next was the discovery of the blanks in Zoe's gun; exactly what a trained assassin like Zoe was thinking was anybody's guess. Gregory said he found it odd that John's wound was strangely shallow for a point-blank shot, and when the doctor dug out a paper wad while stitching John up, the Inspector wasn't surprised to find the handgun, which they had seized, loaded with blanks. Unsurprised, but still immensely perplexed. Zoe would have created a whole new level of incompetence if she had tried to assassinate someone with blanks. Well, either incompetence or a ridiculous belief in one's abilities to perform assassination-by-paper-wads. Possible as it may be, real bullets clearly would have made things a lot easier for her.

And then there was the matter of the caretaker. Gregory called the man up to track him down, and was taken aback when the man said that he had just been released from the hospital after a horrible case of food poisoning, and because of that, hadn't been at the graveyard for the past three days. Also, when showed a photo of the caretaker, John had said that he wasn't the man whom had saved him. Which could only mean that the man was an anomaly, not as obvious and important as the blanks in the assassin's gun, but certainly the most conveniently placed piece of the puzzle.

All that was swept under the rug by, none other than, the crafty Mycroft, and the only people who needed to know more wouldn't be able to anyway; because Gregory would surely be conveniently swamped with work while John would be reminded that he did not have the authority to investigate further into the matter.

And speaking of Mycroft, that cold bastard hadn't contacted John since he nearly bled to death in a cemetary. There hadn't been a single word from the man, he, who had manipulated John into poking his nose into the matter in the first place. Then again, is it over? He was supposed to find out who was responsible for Alice's death, and his only lead was now supposedly under Mycroft's "care". Surely, Mycroft would get _something _out of her? John wouldn't be of much use there, after all, he couldn't glimpse answers off a person simply by looking at them. (A fact not entirely true, because he can, he just see things from a doctor's perspective and usually dismisses his observations as they tend to be irrelevant.) Maybe he should text 'the British Government', see if he could weasel out something from the_- oh hey the nurse is back_.

Gregory's swift action saved him a lecture from the nurse, in an instant, the Detective Inspector had slipped his beer back into the paper bag and had John's bottle in his own hand before the nurse appeared from behind the curtains. Said nurse glanced at the opened bottle in Gregory's hand, and then to John's empty ones, dismissing her suspicions upon finding the patient's hands free of the alcoholic beverage.

"Your discharge papers, Dr. Watson, as you requested." She placed the document on the table and added, "We really would prefer it, if you stayed for just one more night..."

"Didn't you _just _get out of the ICU?" Gregory turned to fix John with a reproachful look. "I'm not the doctor, and _I_ know you should be resting..."

"I can rest at home." That made both the nurse and the detective stiffen, John figured he should practice hiding his exasperation better. "And besides," he added, hoping the two wouldn't linger on his brief cave in, "The hospital could always use another bed. I'll be fine at home."

"You bled out enough to need a transfusion..."

"And all I need is rest, _Inspector_." John made clear who in this room was the most qualified to treat a gunshot wound.

With that, the doctor-patient pulled the documents towards him, borrowed Gregory's pen, and signed the document. He passed them back to the nurse, and because she knows a stubborn and proud patient when she sees one, she relented and asked, "Can we at least wheel you to the exit and wave you a taxi?"

"Oh, there's no need for that, ma'am," Gregory spoke up. "I will send him home myself." (He did, of course had the decency to look abashed about the beer in his hand.)

Still though, that made the nurse seem more at ease. She could trust a friend to keep a better eye on him than a total stranger. She nodded her approval and handed the Inspector John's medicine, before bidding them farewell.

Silence fell on the two men again. This seemed to be happening rather often, and John took the chance to rein in his emotions and put a lid on things.

On the other hand, Gregory was making his own conclusions for why silence seemed to have become a bigger part of their conversations. And he realised it was because _he_ wasn't around to inundate them with seemingly impossible deductions.

"Wait." Another realisation occurred to Gregory. John looked up with a raised eyebrow. "Does this mean I get to push the wheelchair?"


End file.
